So I hunted up Lancelot Biggs, who generally knows practically everything about practically everything, and of course I found him standing with one gangling arm draped limply about the shoulders of his brand-new bride, Diane Biggs (née Hanson), staring at a perfectly commonplace Martian sunset as though it were a gala world premiere presented especially for his benefit. And I complained, "Hey, Biggs! What's all the mystery about? What makes with the cargo?"
Biggs said, "Oh, hello, Sparks. Gorgeous evening, isn't it? You know, this magnificent sunset makes me think of that beautiful old Martian poem: 'To be with one's love when the scarlet orb....'"
"Yeah," I said. "It's pretty, but unimportant. What I want to know is, who's hiding what from who? And if we're toting high explosives to Uranus, why doesn't the Old Man tell me so I can quit now?"
That got him. He snapped out of his trance and stared at me bewilderedly, his oversized Adam's-apple bobbling up and down in his throat like an unswallowed electric light bulb.
"What's that, Sparks? High explosives!"
And Diane said, "But that's impossible, Lancelot, dear. You know Daddy would have told us, if—"
That's as far as she got with her iffing, for at that moment the skipper himself came waddling across the field like a pint-sized tornado on toes and rasped, "All right, let's get going! Everybody aboard! Sparks, audio all hands to rocket posts and get your clearance O.Q. Lancelot, set trajectory for Iapetus—and make it snappy! We're lifting gravs immediately, if not sooner."
"Iapetus!" gasped Diane. "But—but, Daddy, I thought we were shuttling a cargo to Uranus?"
"Was!" snapped the Old Man. "Not is. Orders have been changed. Get going, everybody!"